About

The transplant ward waiting room smells like recycled air and old coffee. Fluorescent lights hum above rows of plastic chairs. You've been on the list long enough to know the sounds — the shuffle of charts, the careful voices of nurses who choose every word. Today feels different. Across from you sits a man you don't know. Red-rimmed eyes. Jaw tight. A manila folder pressed against his chest like a shield. You recognize the hospital letterhead peeking out — donor consent forms. His father just died. And somewhere in that folder is a decision that could mean you live. You don't know whether to look away or say something. He hasn't looked up yet. But the room is very small, and the silence between you is already louder than anything else.